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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936760">Relic of the Past</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes'>Philosophizes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:08:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,551</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran goes looking for a gift for his Warden, and finds one.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alistair &amp; Zevran Arainai, Zevran Arainai/Male Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Relic of the Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>‘Do you know when Theron’s nineday is?’</em>
</p>
<p>It was a simple note, as clear as it could possibly be. But yet, here was Alistair’s response.</p>
<p>
  <em>‘His what?’</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>‘When he was formally introduced to his clan. Like a birthday, but later.’</em>
</p>
<p><em>‘I know what I <strong>think </strong>‘birthday’ means. I think you mean like First Chanting.</em>’</p>
<p>
  <em>‘Not unless you southerners do it to babies.’</em>
</p>
<p>Zevran got two responses, impeccably timed so that the second arrived less than an hour after the first.</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>‘?????’</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>‘Why wouldn’t you take babies to the Chantry. Heresy!’</em>
</p>
<p><em>‘Of course babies can be taken to the Chantry,’ </em>Zevran wrote back.<em> ‘But it isn’t anything of note until they can understand the words. First Chanting is for <strong>children.</strong>’</em></p>
<p>He wrote a second note as well, not about to let Alistair outdo him via messenger bird.</p>
<p>
  <em>‘How do you not celebrate the day of your birth? Surely <strong>that </strong>is heresy, to so disregard such a miracle! Do you not receive presents?’</em>
</p>
<p><em>‘Well <strong>I </strong>never did,’ </em>was Alistair’s reply. <em>‘Don’t know if I had a First Chanting, actually. I mean <strong>obviously </strong>I had a first time in a Chantry<strong>. </strong>Don’t think anyone bothered to record it, though.’</em></p>
<p>The next round of replies were delayed, because Zevran had to wait for an answer from Redcliffe.</p>
<p><em>‘I don’t suppose you know where you were born?’ </em>he asked, when Redcliffe’s Revered Mother wrote him to say that Alistair had had no First Chanting there.</p>
<p>
  <em>‘Nope, sorry. I’ve always assumed Denerim.’</em>
</p>
<p>That was more problematic. Denerim was a city, and by definition, they had multiple Chantries. And a good portion of it had been on fire there at the end of the Blight.</p>
<p>
  <em>‘Well! Then until someone can prove otherwise, I am saying it is whenever you receive this notice.’</em>
</p>
<p>That reply, he sent with a message runner, and included the sort of small cast statuette of Andraste that were sold to pilgrims in the market below Our Lady Redeemer in Amaranthine city.</p>
<p>
  <em>‘My first First Chanting present! Better late than never!’</em>
</p>
<p>Zevran tucked that slip of paper into the copy of the Canticle of Benedictions Theron had gotten for him. It was a small book, only the size of his hand, but thick in the way of these things, as the Canticle was broken into individual verses, every one illuminated and illustrated on the opposite page. Never in his life had he thought he’d own such a piece of devotional artistry, but Theron had presented it to him one day in the way he did all his gifts – with no warning, plenty of thought, and utter sincerity.</p>
<p>And a little bit of cleverness, of the subtle cunning that only shone through occasionally. This Benedictional was a custom work of art, individual as they all were even if some of the illustrated subjects associated with a certain verse were relatively standard, but Theron had found an illuminator willing to include <em>elves. </em>For someone who cared to look, Shartan was there alongside the most popular of blessings.</p>
<p><em>‘He was born sometime in autumn, I’m pretty sure,’ </em>Alistair finally told him, answering the original question.<em> ‘Mid? Late? Not early.’</em></p>
<p>That was more than he had known, and likely all he was going to know without asking Theron outright.</p>
<p>The thing was- well, he knew he didn’t need a significant date to give a gift, Theron proved that often enough. None of those gifts, from gloves to boots to Benedictional to the specially-commissioned-for-him set of silverite armor, had ever been given for any reason more complex than <em>‘I love you’</em>.</p>
<p>Zevran didn’t <em>need </em>a date or a reason to justify reciprocating with an equally extravagant gift. It would just- make things easier.</p>
<p>And also he needed a gift, but that was a separate problem.</p>
<hr/>
<p>It wouldn’t leave him be.</p>
<p>They were months away from autumn, he had <em>time </em>to come up with a gift – but it was an illusory deadline, he knew the gift-giving could happen whenever he pleased, and he didn’t know what he could possibly give Theron.</p>
<p>He had no need of new arms nor armor, and those he already had were made of high-quality materials and so heavily enchanted that there was no real room for improvement. As Arl of Amaranthine and with the continuous sale of whatever he picked up while in the field, Theron was extravagantly wealthy, but seemed to have no interest in spending it on luxuries unless they were for people he loved. He had plenty of influence as Hero of Ferelden, but consistently valued his duty as a Warden over managing politics. He wanted for nothing material, and the only immaterial thing Zevran could think of was the location of Clan Sabrae, but he had no one to ask about their whereabouts.</p>
<p>The alternative to things was skills, but what could he even offer? Theron had no need of assassinations, and everything else seemed paltry in comparison to what he’d been given.</p>
<p>There was just… nothing.</p>
<p>He had to <em>try. </em>He had to come up with <em>something.</em></p>
<hr/>
<p>The markets of rebuilt Amaranthine weren’t as vast as some. The coastal cities of the Free Marches outpaced these in volume, but the argument could be made that Amaranthine saw more coin, or at least more coin per purchase. Amaranthine was the sole producer and exporter of the commodity the arling took its name from – the dyes made from the red-purple flowers of the amaranth plants were one of the staple crops of the local farmers. The trade secrets of Amaranthine’s dyers could turn any cloth vibrant shades of purples, pinks, dark reds, and golds. And these most expensive dyes in the world combined with fine southern wools and linens, or northern cotton and silks?</p>
<p>Oh, how the money flowed. Mostly from the Chantry. How else were they to get those sunset colors on their vestments?</p>
<p>And then, on top of that, Theron had found silverite and gotten the mines in the Wending Wood up and running. When the only other options were sparse and sporadic surface outcrops on the northern coast of the Waking Sea or the cost of overland shipping out of the southern part of Emprise du Lion, well – all they had to do was undercut Orlais’s shipping costs. It was working out quite well.</p>
<p>The pilgrims were nothing to scoff at, either. A good number of them may not have had as much money as the traders in luxury goods and raw materials who were the usual big spenders in port, but there were many of them who came to Our Lady Redeemer to stand where Andraste had received her vision of the Maker and begun her prophecy. There were <em>always </em>pilgrims in Amaranthine.</p>
<p>He was dodging them today, in the markets. It was the early summer swell of the faithful from beyond Fereldan’s shores. At the moment most of them seemed to be Marchers, or at least he was hearing the city accents and snatches of Planasene that survived outside of the regional metropolises, the original home of the Trade language that had almost destroyed its country cousins and was slowly encroaching over the territory of Alamarri in Ferelden.</p>
<p>Something different and familiar caught his ear as he spied on a slightly suspicious-looking exchange happening at a respectable-seeming rented stall selling food to pilgrims. It would be good front for smuggling, or even pirate scouting – but if it was, the vendor would still be here.</p>
<p>That snatch of something northern might not be.</p>
<p>Zevran knew the direction it had come from, but the rest of it took some searching. A busy market was a noisy market, and one voice was easily lost. It was the eventual flash of crushed velvet that told him where to look. No southerner would be wearing such a heavy material in summer.</p>
<p>His mystery voice belonged to a woman, relatively young as these things went, in a dress with a ruched bodice and slashed sleeves that had been out-of-fashion in Antiva when he had last been there. The fabric visible in the slashes was the pale dusty pink that the cheapest type of amaranth dye turned when kept improperly – this was the daughter of some merchant family, in a handed-down dress.</p>
<p>She was trying to sell off a necklace to passers-by.</p>
<p>“An antique, messere, over two hundred years old-”</p>
<p>Maybe not a merchant’s daughter, then. Perhaps someone who had been a servant to a well-off merchant’s family, who either been liked enough to receive an expensive hand-out or had filched an old, abandoned dress for something nice to wear.</p>
<p>Given the general air of desperation about her, Zevran was going to go with <em>‘stolen’</em>.</p>
<p>Well, he hadn’t been the first to try hiding in the south, and he wouldn’t be the last.</p>
<p>“An antique, you say, <em>signora</em>?”</p>
<p>She startled, badly, at the sight of him. He’d had to face her to talk to her, and any Antivan would recognize what the tattoos down the side of his face meant – a Crow elf, not to be touched or harassed without retribution.</p>
<p>“Ye- yes, <em>domsignor</em>.”</p>
<p>It was a very fine piece she was trying to sell. It was a ruby pendant on a golden figaro chain, the gem as large as the space he could make joining his thumb and forefinger and semi-faceted, just enough to give an inner glow when the light was right. The gold mounting was delicately etched, surrounding the ruby with tiny flowers and foliage.</p>
<p>Something about the flowers wasn’t right.</p>
<p>“May I see?”</p>
<p>She handed it to him, not managing the frozen smile those from the higher levels of Antivan society usually affixed when surprised by Crows. If he’d wished to steal this piece, he could simply walk away – Zevran was sure she’d let him, relieved to be out of his company.</p>
<p>A closer look showed him what was bothering him about the flowers. They weren’t the usual stylized jasmine or lily motifs common to floral designs on Antivan jewelry. These were something else.</p>
<p>Feeling something on the back of the pendant, he turned it over. There was writing here he’d only seen a few times in his life, very briefly. Nothing he could read, but it was distinct. And he knew who <em>would </em>be able to read it.</p>
<p>Zevran was also absolutely certain now that this woman had stolen both the dress and the pendant, and likely a handful of other items as well.</p>
<p>“A fine piece, indeed,” he told her. “And older than I think you realize, <em>signora. </em>Now tell me- who owned this before you?”</p>
<p>She stood there silent and scared.</p>
<p>“I have no interest in returning you to Antiva. Unless you came by that with guilt unconfessed-”</p>
<p>He nodded at the pilgrimage token that was pinned to her collar.</p>
<p>“-I shall simply assume they deserved it. Most rich enough to have such a necklace and such a dress do, in Antiva.”</p>
<p>She didn’t manage to look him in the eye, but she found her words.</p>
<p>“They did, <em>domsignor. </em>For what they did to my brother, they did.”</p>
<p>“Then that shall be the end of it,” Zevran said. “Your name?”</p>
<p>“Liani.”</p>
<p>“A pleasure to come across you this day, Liani,” he said. “Both for the surprise of this language we share and your solution to a persistent problem of mine. I would make you an offer for this.”</p>
<p>He dangled the pendant, watching the way it caught the light. It was too bright for the amount of sun they had in this position.</p>
<p>“Nine gold. And some advice.”</p>
<p>This pendant was worth more than that, <em>far </em>more than that. But it had been stolen a few times over, and even if this latest theft had been out of vengeance for the previous holder, there were principles to uphold.</p>
<p>Still, Liani’s eyes went wide at the number. Zevran revised his estimate of her social position downwards again, and wondered who she and her brother had been, in Antiva. She nodded, agreeing to the price.</p>
<p>“Go to Vigil’s Keep,” he told her, handing over the gold. “The Grey Wardens have recently finished renovations on an old fortress, and it needs staffing. A job there will take you far away from a rich port where someone you have stolen from may find you, either out of luck or simply effort.”</p>
<hr/>
<p>He left a note in Nathaniel’s office not to be alarmed if an Antivan woman came looking for work with the Wardens – Liani wasn’t a Crow plant, he’d watched her some after he’d bought the pendant just in case it was a particularly clever trick, he would have noticed the tells. Nathaniel himself was out in the field with Theron on a patrol and not scheduled to be back until the day after, so Zevran had enough time to consider the presentation of his gift.</p>
<p>In the end, his nerves got the better of him and he simply blurted: “I found you something,” when Theron walked into their quarters to divest himself of his armor.</p>
<p>Theron stopped partway through undoing his first buckle.</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“A chance find in Amaranthine,” Zevran said, internally chastising himself for not giving his Warden time to have even a few minutes after returning, that would have been considerate. “She didn’t know what she had.”</p>
<p>He held out the pendant, resting coiled and heavy in his palm. Theron’s inhale was audible in his surprise as he gently lifted it to hang its full length in front of him.</p>
<p>“It has some magic,” Zevran continued. “In the dark, you can see it glow gently. I do not know if it is enchanted any further than that.”</p>
<p>“It might be,” Theron murmured, still examining the pendant. He caught the jewel against one gloved hand and brought it closer to better see the etchings.</p>
<p>“It <em>is </em>elvish, isn’t it?” Zevran asked with a sudden spike of anxiety. “There is writing on the back, and I do not think I would mistake old El’vhen for another script, but-”</p>
<p>“No, no, it is,” Theron said, turning it over. “It’s from the Dales.”</p>
<p>He was blinking deliberately. Zevran knew that tell. That was Theron tearing up.</p>
<p>“See,” Theron said, drawing closer to show him. “This says: <em>‘For your rest’</em>. Someone robbed a grave.”</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“The poppies,” he said. “The inscription. The light enchantment. In the golden age of the Dales, if you were in a family with one, or a Knight or one of the priests or- someone who could be buried in a crypt. There would be statues of the dead, or carvings on top of sarcophagi. They’d be made with things inset. Jewelry. Flowers enchanted to stay fresh, books to not degrade, candles to never go out. Poppies are a healer’s gentle way of killing. Someone- someone had their tomb smashed for this, so some <em>human </em>could have a pretty necklace-”</p>
<p>Zevran pressed against his side.</p>
<p>“There is no way to tell where it was taken from, is there?”</p>
<p>“No,” Theron said. “No, but I can re-inter it properly. I’ll take it to the grove, it was meant for the dead, I can say the prayers again and give it back to Falon’din-”</p>
<p>He dropped the chain, letting the pendant rest in his right palm, and grasped Zevran’s hand.</p>
<p>“Thank you, for finding this, for returning it. Thank you.”</p>
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